


not ready to say goodbye

by grundlemuncher



Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: Fontcest, M/M, Sibling Incest
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-04-25
Updated: 2018-01-13
Packaged: 2018-06-04 12:25:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 6
Words: 9,977
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6657646
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/grundlemuncher/pseuds/grundlemuncher
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>to someone like you again</em>
</p>
<p>impossible (adj): incapable, unsuitable, impractical, frisk</p>
<p>frisk dies, and the skeleton brothers are left behind.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. can't afford not to care

Papyrus is going to dust with the way he’s been going. It hits Sans all at once, drags him straight out of his own self-destructive cycle when he realizes Papyrus is even deeper within his own. Eyes always on the ground, unfocused and glassy. Hands shaking so bad he can hear the metacarpals rattling against each other. Magic pooling unrestrained from him at times, humming in the air, the notes low and sad and long.

Coming up on the end.

Sans can’t lose them both.

_He can’t afford not to care anymore._

“come on, pal.” He tells his half-gone brother that night, staring vacantly past the television. It’s a Mettaton rerun - the robot had gone on a sabbatical after Frisk, citing the loss of his muse. Sans would feel touched if he could feel anything, lately. Papyrus’s gaze takes too many moments to focus on him when Sans takes his hand.

“Leave me alone, Sans.” His voice is hardly a whisper, falling away into an unbearable silence. Sans shivers.

“i ran a bath for you.” The younger brother tells him, leaning down to make Papyrus look him in the eye. “you’re starting to turn into a _smelly-ton._ ”

Sans barely manages to crack a smile at his own pun. Papyrus just closes his eyes. He doesn’t so much resist when Sans tugs him up and off the couch as he simply can’t find the effort to move. Slowly, the two trudge upstairs.

Sans shuts the bathroom door behind them, glancing once at his brother’s listless stance. The elder skeleton frowns as Sans begins to tug off his clothes, but lets him undress him in silence. Nudging at his hips, Sans directs him into the warm bathwater. Some of it overflows and splashes over the side as the much larger skeleton sinks in, getting Sans’ slippers wet. He always overfills the tub.

Papyrus regards him wearily as Sans kneels on the wet tile and reaches for the soap. Lathering up his bony hands, he pulls one of Papyrus’s arms towards himself and begins to clean it, moving from his elbow down to his wrist.

“What are you doing?” Papyrus doesn’t really sound like he cares, but it’s a start.

“relax, bud.” And he does, letting his head dip back against the wall, staring blankly up at the ceiling.

Sans washes him slowly, gently - leaning into the water to get at Papyrus’s other arm, carefully tugging his knees up to scrub at his legs. The bathroom is silent all the while, broken only by the soothing splash of sudsy water.

Sans doesn’t stop what he’s doing when he speaks up, voice low. “you gotta start sleeping again, pap.”

He wishes his brother would glare at him, or roll his eyes, or tell him Sans doesn’t know what he’s talking about and _he’s_ the older brother and he’s _fine_. Instead his gaze stays pointedly on the ceiling, seeing somewhere Sans can’t follow, and his voice is a hundred miles away.

“I dream of Frisk.”

Yeah. So does Sans. He knows there’s nothing he can say to that, so he lets Papyrus’s leg slip back into the water, and he shifts until he’s knelt by his brother’s head.

_No more resets._ If this goes wrong, he can’t go back.

Papyrus glances at him as he begins to clean his chest. His movements are slow, rubbing back and forth across his sternum long after the soap has run off. Beneath his hands, his brother takes a deep, shaky breath.

It’s only after Sans dips a hand inside his rib cage that Papyrus speaks up. “What are you doing?” He asks again, voice trembling. When Sans doesn’t reply, he reaches after him into his chest and catches his wrist. “Sans.”

The younger brother tries for his most serious look, but Papyrus doesn’t shrink beneath it. He sighs. “do you want me to stop?”

Papyrus looks at him for a long moment, gaze shifting from eye socket to eye socket, thoughts unreadable. His grip on Sans’ wrist tightens - and then falls away.

Sans tries not to acknowledge the frown on his brother’s face as he resumes his ministrations. Papyrus stares hard at him from his peripherals until he presses his palm to the front of his spine, doubling the pressure as he slides it down, vertebrae shivering against his fingers. The older brother tips his head back again, eyes shutting tight.

He flinches when Sans wraps his other hand around the base of his neck, teasing the skeleton’s sensitive nerves. A sigh rattles out of him, turning into his brother’s touch.

Sans is no Frisk, but he’s well acquainted with his brother’s body thanks to them. If he closes his eyes he can almost pretend that they’re there, that his dear little human is the one coaxing Papyrus to the edge.

Sans isn’t sure if he’s ready to admit that he’s missed this.

The hand inside his rib cage slides out, fisting about his spine and squeezing. Papyrus keens, his own hands scrabbling for purchase on the edge of the tub. When Sans notices his pelvis thrusting up weakly, he lets his grip slide lower.

“i need you to stay with me.”

Papyrus opens his eyes at that and stills beneath his brother’s gaze. The pinpricks of white light in his eye sockets are dim, but they hold him tight. There’s a smile on Sans’ face again - it’s tired, no, _exhausted_ , but it’s real and it’s trying and it’s the first one Papyrus can recall seeing since their little world fell apart and turned to dust.

Sans cups the base of Papyrus’s spine, poised over his coccyx, and a strangled groan tears itself from his throat. “i can’t go on without you, buddy. please.”

Papyrus nods, teeth grit and head thrown back. “P-please,” He echoes, and Sans palms his brother’s pelvis as he bucks up into the touch.

It’s been a while, and Papyrus doesn’t last long. Sans only has to rub at his pelvis for another minute before his brother gasps, hands suddenly going to his shoulders and fisting in his hoodie. He shakes through his orgasm, sloshing more water over the side of the tub, and Sans cups his head and holds him through it, even as he cries, _“Frisk, Frisk.”_

When it’s over, he goes positively boneless. Sans catches him before he sinks completely underwater, propping him up enough to keep his head aloft. He lets Papyrus come down, breath slowly evening from shallow gasps to deep, slow breaths as Sans gently, so gently, finishes his work by washing the elder brother’s face.

He brings Papyrus back around when he rinses the soap from his head. The water is beginning to cool, and Papyrus doesn’t object when Sans nudges at his armpits and gets him up. His legs still feel like jelly. He’s _tired._

Sans towels him off and leads him back into his own room. It’s not up to Papyrus’s cleanliness standards, but there are fresh sheets on the mattress and it’s bigger than his own racecar bed, so he lets Sans press him down and cocoon him into the blankets. He’s barely lucid as the younger skeleton strips out of his own wet clothes and crawls in beside him, skull pillowed against his clean chest, fingers gripping tight to his ribs as an anchor, like he’s afraid it wasn’t enough.


	2. good thing he's got me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> fuuuuuck it I wrote more

The bed is empty.

Sans seems to pick up right where he left off when he wakes in the morning, jolting awake when he feels how cold the bed is and _shouldn’t_ be. In a moment of panic he throws back the covers, expecting to be coated in dust - but then he isn’t. The sharp terror gives way to dull dismay, his magic still buzzing in his bones. Sans scrambles out of bed and throws on the first set of clothes he stumbles over, feeling frazzled.

There’s light coming from the bottom of the staircase and it gives him purpose, which puts him a little at ease. In the living room he can smell something sweet, growing in intensity as he rounds the corner into the kitchen-

and smacks straight into his brother.

“OOF.” Papyrus stumbles back, winded by the direct headbutt to his sensitive hanging ribs. Sans winces, hissing, as he rubs at his temple. The two make eye contact with each other at the same time, still inches apart, and not-so-subtly step back.

“AH. SANS.” Papyrus states, gaze never staying on him for more than a moment before veering somewhere else into space. “YOU’RE UP.”

“morning bro.”

“YES, GOOD MORNING.”

They each spend a minute not looking at each other.

Behind his brother, Sans can see that there’s breakfast on the table. Papyrus is still standing awkwardly, shoulders slumped, but there’s a little more backbone to him today and his eye sockets don’t seem so sunken, even if he still won’t meet Sans’ gaze. Sans notices he’s wringing his fingers nervously, cracking each joint with a pop. Heh, Frisk picked up that bad habit from his brother, and Toriel scolded them for weeks in an effort to break it. When she caught Papyrus cracking his knuckles, he got such an earful for corrupting her child.

Frisk had still just been a kid, then.

“I, UH,” Papyrus tears Sans back to his human-less present. His brother his finally looking him in the eye socket, nervous, and nervous has never looked right on Papyrus. He sighs, finally defeated. “I DON’T KNOW WHAT LAST NIGHT WAS, SANS.”

They’re having this conversation. It’s happening, and it’ll always have happened, from now on, because time only runs in one direction anymore.

“me either.” Sans admits.

“BUT!” Papyrus continues, barreling on before what little nerve he’s regained forsakes him. “THANK YOU. I THINK.”

Sans doesn’t know what to say to that, but luckily Papyrus doesn’t leave him much of an opening anyway. “I’M HEADING OUT. TRAINING WITH UNDYNE.”

The smaller skeleton is instantly torn. On one hand, Papyrus had been shirking his never-ending, lifelong training sessions with Undyne since Frisk had passed, and he was pleased to hear that something had changed enough to get them started again. On the other hand, that change was almost certainly him, and probably bad.

Papyrus must see the surprise on his face. “IT’S NOT TO AVOID YOU!! WELL. NOT… IN A BAD WAY. JUST IN A… ‘WE BOTH PROBABLY NEED A LITTLE SPACE.’ WAY.”

Sans’ gut twists, tense and cramped. But Papyrus is standing there looking at him so earnestly that he manages to push the feeling down and smile a little wider. He jams his shaking hands into the pockets of his shorts, affecting a casual stance. “nah, i get you. have fun.”

Papyrus almost, _almost_ smiles. “OKAY. SEE YOU LATER, BROTHER.”

They have a weird little song and dance at the doorway where they’re not quite comfortable at being close, but then Sans slips one way and Papyrus goes the other and it’s over. For now.

Only once he hears the front door shut does Sans let himself relax, slumping into a kitchen chair and running a hand over his eye sockets. He nearly puts his elbow into a plate of pancakes, and decides a fork might be better suited to the job. His brother hasn’t cooked in a while, after all. Best to savor it.

The pancakes are Frisk’s recipe: vanilla with a dash of cinnamon and utterly drowned in maple syrup. Sans can never help but smile - that’s just his face - but this time it’s good, so good, and he makes sure to wipe away his tears before they land on his plate. This is too good of a breakfast to ruin by getting sentimental.

+++++

It goes like this for five days: Sans goes to sleep alone and wakes up alone, and when he heads downstairs there’s a plate of breakfast for him and a note detailing an excuse that gets Papyrus out of the house and away from him for most of the day. Training with Undyne, anime with Alphys, reading to kids at the library. There’s always something, and it’s not that Sans isn’t invited, but he didn’t want to wake him and he didn’t think he’d be interested and he’s sure he’s got something better to do. Something better tends to be watching TV and waiting for him to come home.

Sometime in the evening Papyrus will return, and he’ll make dinner in the kitchen or bring Sans takeout, and they’ll watch TV quietly on either sides of the sofa and say next to nothing.

They were brothers before Frisk, weren’t they? Was that not how it worked anymore?

It’s killing Sans to not see his brother as much as he wants, to have to shout puns across this great chasm in their relationship - but if it got him _living_ again…

Sans always makes sacrifices for his big brother. But this one hurts the most.

One night, readying for bed, Sans accidentally blocks the way for Papyrus as he’s coming out of the bathroom, clad in pjs with “PRINCE PAPYRUS” bedazzled across the chest. Frisk had made it for him as a teenager when they found out he wasn’t sleeping well. It was good luck - and more than a little thin and frayed, now. Sans finds himself smiling at the crooked beads in front of his face.

“UM, SANS…”

“oh!” Sans jolts out of the memory. “sorry bro, guess these old bones were day dreamin’.”

Papyrus has the decency to frown at the almost pun. So eager for a sense of normalcy, Sans presses on, grasping at the first old topic that comes to mind.

“you want a bedtime story?” He asks, grinning, and tries not to feel disappointed when Papyrus shakes his head no. It’s been years since the last one, anyway.

Sans shuffles aside in the tight hallway with a polite nod, expecting Papyrus to walk away, but instead the taller skeleton stands there. The smaller skeleton follows his gaze over his head and into his own room, past the dirty socks and unvacuumed carpet and- to the bed Sans and Papyrus and Frisk shared.

Sans has found it to be achingly lonely ever since, well, but the thought had never even occurred to him that at least he still _had_ the bed. The worn sheets they would warm up together, the pillow he’s refused to wash because it still has a few familiar gray hairs in it, still smells like his Frisk. Their Frisk.

He must be the worst brother ever.

“papyrus,” Sans starts, voice low, rousing him from his dreamy look. “do you want to sleep with me tonight?”

+++++

The bed was always too big for Sans. He wasn’t the largest of monsters, and certainly didn’t need the space - but when Frisk had moved in all those years ago there hadn’t been an extra bedroom for them, and Papyrus was loathe to trade in his racecar bed, so Sans was the one who got the upgrade. It made sense, anyway. Sans and Frisk had rather normal sleeping schedules, while his brother only took an “eight hour nap” once or twice a week.

There were times, now and then, that Sans would return from some trip to find his brother and lover curled together in his racecar bed, limbs wrapped around each other to fit, and Frisk would always have a few funny marks on their body over breakfast from the tight squeeze. More often than not if the three of them were sleeping at once, Papyrus would crawl into their bed and sandwich Frisk between them. Those were the best nights. They felt right. They felt like home.

A hand trails across the back of his neck, and he’s still so deep into his memories that he sighs. Then he remembers. _do you want to sleep with me_

“oh, pap-“ Sans starts, and his brother flinches away. “i-i didn’t mean. you don’t have to do that.”

He turns over and falls asleep, and for a week they stay that way each night. And then it happens again.

Sans wakes up to find Papyrus’s arm about him, holding tight, and he shudders as he feels his brother’s hard mouth press to the back of his neck. Maybe he’s still asleep, maybe he’s thinking of Frisk _oh_ \- Papyrus’s teeth slide over his sensitive vertebrae again, nuzzling, and Sans’ spine arches.

He doesn’t know what to do. Sans fists the sheets in one hand, struggling not to groan when Papyrus drags the arm he has around him down his chest, fingers catching on every rib. It feels - _shit_ \- it feels amazing, and he hates that it feels amazing, and he tells himself it’s just because it’s been so long. They’re just lonely. They just miss their Frisk.

That’s… that’s enough to let it keep going, right?

Sans takes a deep breath, chest heaving under his brother’s touch, and wills his voice not to shake. “papyrus.”

The bony hand playing across his ribs stops, but Sans still shudders when Papyrus speaks, teeth clicking against the back of his neck. “ARE YOU OKAY?”

“y-yeah.” He can feel the tension melt from him against his back. “just. you sure you wanna do this, pal?”

“…I MISS FRISK. I MISS THE WAY THINGS WERE WHEN THEY…” Papyrus stops, and when he hugs Sans a little tighter it feels like someone’s squeezing his soul. “I MISS YOU.”

Well. How can he argue with that.

Sans releases his grip on the sheets, reaches back and touches Papyrus’s thigh. His brother sighs faintly at the go ahead, breath hot on the back of his vertebrae. He thumbs at Sans’ sternum, touch growing bolder as Sans purposefully allows himself the faintest hum of pleasure. He’s never been the loud one, but tonight he might have to be.

Just as Sans is wondering if he should turn around, to find the determination to touch his brother back, Papyrus’ pelvis brushes up from under his own. _Want_ courses through his system - purely physical, he tells himself - as he accustoms himself to the new feeling of hard bone to grind back onto. Papyrus dips his head at that, burying his face in Sans’ shoulder, holding him tighter and bucking up into him.

This is weird. This is weird and they should stop, they should reload, make this go away, but the heat growing in his crotch is pushing away all sensible thought, and to his shock when Papyrus lets out a shaky moan, muted into his collarbone, Sans soul tightens and then he’s-

Papyrus stops cold at the soft cyan glow from beneath their thin blanket. Sans freezes, mortified - he hadn’t even _meant_ to form a cock, but it had been so long and Papyrus was, well, _good_ , and oh he could probably _feel_ Sans’ cock, hot and wet and already leaking.

There’s a moment where Sans can sense the apprehension radiating off of his brother, and he’s turning to tell him _something_ : he’s sorry, they can stop, it was an accident- and he makes eye contact with Papyrus just as the elder wraps a long, thin hand about his cock.

“oh.”

The choked noise dies in his throat, eye sockets wide and white pupils near gone. Papyrus looks much the same, teeth grit with anxiety, and they stare at each other like that for what feels like ages. _His brother’s hand is on his cock._

Papyrus blinks once, swallows, and pointedly stares up at the ceiling. Sans is about to throw himself out of bed (and maybe into the Core) when the arm around his chest squeezes tight, and the hand about his conjured cock jerks forward. His brother starts out shakily, pumping out of rhythm in a way that would be absolutely maddening if it wasn’t already entirely insane, before Sans shoves his head back down into his pillow and just - _just let it happen._

It’s strange. He’s had his own metacarpals on his dick before, certainly, and Frisk’s warm hands, but feeling someone else’s bones slick up and down his rapidly hardening member is - it’s just - part of him wishes he could detach from this whole situation and pretend it was his own hand, but he _can’t_ , and despite himself he feels hotter and hotter when Papyrus begins to grind on him from behind again, and there’s no mistaking who _that_ could be.

Noises are falling from his mouth now, and buried as his bright-blue face is into the pillow, he knows his brother can hear him. He can certainly hear Papyrus, whining into the side of his skull as he shudders, bucking up into him. There’s no way Papyrus doesn’t know how _good_ he sounds, how passionate, and if Sans is sure of one thing it’s that he’s always loved Papyrus’ passion. This is… just a new way to appreciate it.

“SANS…” Comes his voice, strained, “ARE YOU…?”

“so close,” Sans replies immediately, beyond thinking. “so close, _please_.”

Papyrus’ grip tightens and picks up speed, pumping his thick cock with ease as precum drips between his metacarpals. He’s panting into Sans’ neck, mouth hung open, body in perfect fluid motion as he drags his hand up, pulling away, and then crashing back down as he bucks up into Sans - bone on bone and _friction_. Sans can’t stand it, he needs this and he needs to get away from this and then Papyrus’ teeth are at his jaw, scraping in something like a kiss.

The sincerity in his voice is like a physical punch to Sans’ soul. “COME ON. YOU CAN DO IT.”

And with that he does, coming with a strangled yelp as he fucks himself back against his brother, desperate for any and all touch. His cum pours over Papyrus’ hand as he continues to pump him, even as he shakes and groans and finally jerks away from his brother, overstimulated.

Papyrus hardly gives him more than a glance when Sans pulls away, panting. Instead he throws himself onto his back, hands coming down to rub roughly at his hips and pubis, one covered in light blue cum that smears across his bones. Sans watches dumbly, jaw slack, the blanket long since having been kicked off. His soul is still pounding in his chest and he feels like he should look away but he can’t, not with Papyrus’ eyes scrunched tight in concentration, with the brutal pace he’s fucking himself, with his own cum making for the smooth glide between his brother’s hands and hips.

Sans knows when Papyrus comes, having seen it many times before. He tenses, going rigid as his orgasm washes through him, legs extended and head tossed back. Papyrus groans, long and low and if Sans hadn’t literally just come as well, he’s ashamed to admit the sound might make him hard again. He’s ashamed of a lot of things.

Papyrus snaps like a cut thread when it’s over, going loose. Sans looks away quickly before he’s caught staring, turning to lay on his stomach and bury his face into his pillow. The wet patch beneath his pelvis reminds him of what just happened anyway. He can feel his brother’s breathing slow by inches, until it’s measured and soft and so, so quiet.

They both know the other is still awake.

Sans murmurs into his pillow. He can feel Papyrus flinch, now on his own side of the bed, like it’s just another night. “WHAT?”

Gathering the remains of his courage and consciousness, Sans turns his head so his words aren’t lost again. “i said i love you.”

Papyrus blinks at him, stunned or maybe sleepy, Sans doesn’t much care anymore. He lets his eyes fall shut once more, hoping for better dreams.

“…I LOVE YOU TOO.” Papyrus replies, easy as that, easy as it’s ever been.


	3. good cop bad cop

Papyrus is going back to work.

Sans finds him in the living room, staring into their full-length mirror, back to him. Crisp, dark blue hugs his form, cutting a shadow across the floor, sharp and dangerous. Sans watches as he tugs at his cuffs, smoothing non-existent wrinkles, stark white bone on a night sky. He doesn’t notice Sans until he starts at the door bell, black empty eye sockets roaming his own form dully.

He looks old.

The smile he puts on his strained. “MORNING, SANS.”

“mornin’.” He doesn’t have pockets to restrain his hands, and they gesture across the distance between them, faltering. “back to work?”

“YES.” His brother strides to the door, four swift long steps. “IT’S ABOUT TIME, ISN’T IT?”

The front door swings open, and beyond it Undyne leans one scaly teal hand on her hip, affecting normalcy. The yellow toothy grin she flashes at Papyrus is restrained, but unfailingly kind. “All right, partner!”

Her gold badge glitters in the morning sun. Sans winces away from it. Undyne wastes no time.

“Ready to get back to it??”

Papyrus nods, stiff, but his shoulders perk just a bit at his friend’s voice. “JUST LET ME GRAB MY LUNCH.”

His brother disappears into the kitchen, and Undyne hangs in the doorway, hovering like a specter. She finds Sans standing where Papyrus left him, swaddled in an old stained undershirt and sweatpants, the inside still caked with the cum his brother coaxed from him.

One day, they might have said hello, done the usual banter. Some day they might again. Today, Undyne glances briefly to where Papyrus has disappeared, and gives Sans a short nod.

“I don’t need to know what you did, but it worked.”

Sans shrugs. What else is there to do.

“BREAKFAST IS IN THE FRIDGE, SANS.” Papyrus calls to him, not looking as he steps past, brown bag in hand. Undyne steps back. His bones light up in the sun.

“have a good day.” Sans says.

“YOU TOO.”

And then the door swings shut, and Sans is left where he stood, toes curling into the carpet, into the dark.

**+++++++**

_It stopped feeling good days ago. Now he just needs it - when it wanes, his skull starts spinning with memories and bad ideas and hurt. He just wants to get away from it, out of his own head._

_He can’t go home. Papyrus is there, probably on their shit old couch, surrounded by yellow walls that are-were Frisk’s favorite color._

_He’s flooded with smoke and whiskey, having sat so long in the bar that his bones are beginning to smear with soot. He can barely see the other side of the booth, can’t think past raising his glass to his mouth again and even that’s getting shaky if the wet sticky spill on his chin says anything._

_It’s all he wants. He thinks. He doesn’t really have wants anymore._

_He’s long past noticing the sad, weary look behind Grillby’s glasses when he walks ‘round to refill his drink, but he’s not so far gone that he misses the heavy thud of their city’s top-ranked detective falling into the booth across from him._

_Sans smiles, wobbly, his new companion swimming in his dizzy gaze. “undyne the undyyyyying!”_

_Her mask cracks, momentarily confused, and he remembers Oh Right. She doesn’t know. No one remembers but him, now. The laugh that bubbles up from the hollow behind his jaw is bitter._

_“lemme buy you a drink, officer.” Sans salutes, sloppily. Undyne cuts him off, pushing a glass into his hands that he hadn’t noticed before._

_“Here.”_

_She cuts through murmur not through her low-pitched voice but through her glare, yellow and sick and gleaming. The new glass is tall and orange-red. Inviting._

_“This is your last one.”_

_It’s a Bloody Mary - emphasis on the Bloody. The thick ketchup sticks in his nonexistent throat as he works his way through his skull, starting backwards, looking for words._

_It’s not his first intervention - hell, it isn’t even his first intervention today. They all go the same way: want a glass of water pal? something to eat, yeah? hitting the bottle a little hard, aren’t you? look, we think you’re drinking too much. we’re worried about you. we know this is hard for you. we miss frisk too. this has to stop. you can’t do this forever._

_But he can, and he quite well plans to, if they’ll just leave him to it. Sans is halfway down the glass and nowhere closer to the right words to tell Undyne off before she starts when she says three words and it’s over._

_“Papyrus is dying.”_

_This is what happens when people like him take it easy._

**+++++++**

_“i ran a bath for you. you’re starting to turn into a smelly-ton.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i got this chapter that's been sitting half-finished on my hard drive for almost a year, and fuck it, i'm gonna start chopping it up and posting it so i finally have to get it done.
> 
> thanks for sticking around! more soon


	4. i don't want to let go

The schoolyard is packed.

Not in and of itself a surprising fact. It’s just past noon, and lunch has concluded. Recess is in full swing. It was the one subject he and Papyrus always agreed on as best - his brother would bolt from activity to activity, an outlier in every group but always undeterred, excited to stretch his joints and work up a sweat on his bones. Sans preferred to find a shady spot to snooze.

Recess looks a lot different now than it did some odd hundred years ago. There’s sunlight, for one. There’s humans, for two.

Sans observes as an absolute mess of little beings run and scream and climb all over the playground. Ten fingers, three fingers. Four limbs, no limbs. Hair and fur and skin and scales that encompasses the known rainbow, and then some.

But smiles. Mostly, entirely, laughs and shouts and life and smiles.

These kids are so young it’s starting to hurt him.

Lucky for him, their teacher notices his presence.

Sans counts the steps she takes to him across the yard, strong and smooth and calm, panicking internally because there’s something he’s forgot.

What do you call your dead partner’s mother, again? ‘Tori’ seems too casual, back to the beginning, like the last century never happened and they’re stuck on either side of a door in a woods. ‘Toriel?’ No, god, he’s never called her that. ‘Queen Toriel’ is right out. So are the usuals - pal, buddy, friend.

He can’t call her ‘Mom.’ If he calls her mom he’ll start crying right here and now, and then here is here, she’s here, time’s up.

“Sans,” Toriel breathes, the sweetest, saddest smile spreading her face, and none of that matters anymore. The wide grin he forces up comes easy.

She sweeps him into a hug, dwarfing him, swallowing him in violet robes that smell like butterscotch and cinnamon and warm coals. It threatens to rocket him straight back in time, reset to dinners around her table, snail pies and skeletons and a human and their mom. He fights to keep it together, wrapping his arms about her as far as they’ll go and holding tight.

“heya, teach.”

If Sans can’t quite yet stand the boundless energy of the children about them, Toriel thrives in it. He finds himself thinking this as he watches the small, easy smile on her face while she bustles about the break room, having spirited him there quickly, knowing Sans better than he knows himself, often. She’s at home here, in this school - surrounded by kids who grow and grow while she stays the same.

He can’t begin to imagine it. Smiles and strong shoulders beneath all this loss.

Toriel finds a half-full bottle of ketchup within the mini fridge, pushing it easily into his hands as she sits across from him. Sans doesn’t wait for her to start - he doesn’t know how he’d honestly reply to anything she’d have to say, yet. It’s always the same words in different mouths: _how-are you, how’s-your-brother, what-have-you-been-up-to, how-have-you-been-holding-up._

“knock knock.” He starts, the words rolling familiar from his molars to the tip of his tongue.

Toriel smiles. “Who is there?”

“ben.”

“Ben who?”

“ben a long time, huh?”

And then she laughs, light and high and genuine, the lack of a deadening door between them the only difference between this laugh he’s teased from her and their first.

She catches him beneath her warm, brown gaze. “Not so long, my good friend.”

“heh.” Sans breathes, just a little starstruck. Why had he ever been nervous about this?

Toriel stirs her tea - golden flower, he observes abstractly - while Sans finds his voice. “how’re the kids?”

His friend lights up, tips of her blunt fangs peeking over her sweet smile. What begins as a fondly remembered anecdote becomes a similar story, and then a quick history on this new batch of students, a silly thing that Ice Wolf’s granddaughter did, how no less than five kids have accidentally called her mom. Sans lets her go on and on, soothed by her warm tone, not even realizing he half expects Frisk to plop down in the abandoned seat between them until another teacher wanders in and decidedly _isn’t Frisk._

Toriel falls softly quiet as the interloper rummages through a cabinet before taking their leave. She taps her padded fingers against her long-cool mug, looking away from him.

“You know,” She murmurs, kindly, “we always need a substitute around this time of year.”

Sans grins, tight. “nice try.”

Toriel finds his guarded gaze, her own eyes wide and earnest. “The children adore you.”

“they adore that i let them slack off.”

Though he can see it physically pains her to endorse laziness, Toriel continues. “Everyone needs a break sometimes.”

Sans takes a long sip from his untouched bottle, letting his thoughts slow and settle.

“well, that’s what i’m still doin’.”

The thing is, they both know that if Toriel just asked, Sans couldn’t say no.

She doesn’t.

Maybe some day he’ll be back here. Subbing in for astronomy, physics, occasionally monster history. Planting whoopee cushions under seats and filling lockers with shaving cream, as a janitor, when he noticed bullies but couldn’t really do anything about it. Sans thinks - unbidden, as always - of the first time Frisk came home with a black eye and refused to tell Toriel where it had come from. He’d learned some twenty-odd years later over beers that it had been a monster-hater. Not their first run in for the Ambassador of Monsters and certainly not the last, but next time ‘round Sans would be ready, he’d anticipate it, he’d stop-

Oh. Except, no more resets.

It’s as though the ground has crumbled away beneath his heels, and if he doesn’t keep moving forward, he’ll fall too.

Toriel’s wide warm paw falls onto his trembling hand, rattling atop the table, swallowing it up.

“Will you and Papyrus come to dinner with Asgore and I next week?” She asks, echoing through his fog, dragging him back. She’s smiling, gently, and then rolling her eyes. “Undyne and Alphys will be there too, and I don’t wish for him to think it’s a double date.”

Sans finds himself smiling, shakily. Slow to anger, their Toriel, but long to forgive. He does his best to focus on this old fact and not his quiet new horror that the innocent invitation to the skeleton brothers makes this a triple date.

He can see Papyrus passing the salt, his hands slick with Sans’ cum.

“we’d love to.”

A shrill bell signals the changing of periods, and the end of Sans’ short reprieve. Toriel escorts Sans to the front gates, even though she’ll be late to English, ignoring his half-hearted protests. He won’t lie and say he wishes he could stay in her company a little longer - pretend everything is back to the way it used to be, or pretend he might even be moving on.

Toriel hugs him again by the wrought iron fence, and he holds on, breathing in the pollen from the school’s meticulously cared for garden. He’s still the first to let go, slippers scuffing on the sidewalk as he waves goodbye over his shoulder, near tears.

“Sans?” Toriel calls, and he turns, plastering on his best smile. She sees right through it, and they both pretend otherwise.

“See you soon.”

* * *

_“hey jer,” Sans inwardly smirks at the monster’s put-out frown. “chilldrake's lookin for ya. think i saw him by the bar.”_

_Neither of these things are true, but Sans doesn’t let it get to him - it’s hard to, getting hit with a grateful smile from the kid like that. Placing a slice of cake in front of each of them, Sans drops into Jerry’s hastily vacated seat and grins back at Frisk’s mumbled “Thank you.”_

_“anytime.” Sans nudges Frisk’s plate closer to them, digging into his own. “eat up, kid. it’s cinnamon and butterscotch. think i heard something about that being a favorite of yours.”_

_Frisk blushes at Sans’ good-natured wink, but they take a bite nonetheless. For a few minutes the two sit in silence, listening to the party move along without them. Napstablook’s taken over as DJ, if the slow tempo of the next song says anything. Mettaton has somehow dragged Alphys onto the dance floor. If he squints, Sans can almost see Asgore and Undyne laughing with each other across the room. Somewhere, Papyrus can be heard arguing with Grillby over the greasiness of his food._

_The kid still hasn’t said a word. They’re probably pretty bushed from getting talked at all day, but they’ve hardly touched their cake, so he_ knows _something’s wrong. Sans takes a deep breath - more for show than anything else - and turns towards them, leaning on his elbow. Frisk meets his gaze guiltily._

_“what’s up, pal? you’re even quieter than usual.” Sans tries for a reassuring grin, but it falls a little short of placating._

_It’s got nothing on Frisk’s aborted smile, so transparent and thin that Sans thinks it’ll crack as they shake their head. “nice try,” Sans tells them, and they flinch like they’ve been hit._

_Frisk’s tired gaze swivels away from him, searching for someone to rescue them, but they pause for a half a second on the bowl of golden flowers sitting centerpiece on the table._

_“oh.” Sans doesn’t even mean to say it - it just falls from his mouth, realization dawning in the space it’s left behind._

_Seven years to the day since they all crawled out of the Underground, and the kid who led them is still hung up on the psychotic flower they left behind._

_Sans feels it again - the crawling, itching roil of something in his bones. A missed step, a misheard word - deja vu that blossoms into cold horror, into counting the seconds minutes hours days since they left, trying to remember the last time he told Papyrus he loved him. The untouchable sense that something_ just might _because it used to_ always _be Missing. (…i was going to say something, but i forgot)._

_Seven years, and he’s still waiting for that Reset._

_Frisk is glaring at him. Kid’s a mindreader._

_“there was nothing you could have done.” He’s saying, feeling the lights in his own eye sockets flicker and die. “and there’s nothing you can do_ now _, right?”_

_It hangs between them, unsaid. If you’re gonna do it, just do it._

_Frisk holds his pitch-black gaze with a bright-eyed, furious one of their own. And then, by inches, by breaths and heart-beats and moments in their ongoing Happy Ending, it falls._

_They turn away from him, holding their arms and looking miserably at the ground._

_Sans feels his soul sink, the fury that had lit it up vanishing in an instant, leaving him empty and tired. He hadn’t meant to do that. He always had to be careful around Frisk - he could never take anything back with them. They’d remember, even when he didn’t quite._

_It’s their party too. Hell, there’d be no anniversary without them._

_“hey.” Frisk eyes them tiredly, and he does his best for a genuine, placating smile. “you know, no one’s taken my bro out for a spin on the dance floor yet. i think it’s bummin’ him out.”_

_“could you do me a favor?” He winks, and before Frisk can open their mouth he’s shouting across the room. “hey, papyrus!”_

_“BROTHER!”_

_Papyrus is at his side in an instant, all dolled up in his best suit, the copious amounts of glittering MTT brand cologne outshone only by his smile. He’s a gem._

_“frisk here wants to dance with you, but they’re too shy to ask.”_

_The kid in question sputters, cheeks lighting up red - they’ve grown so easily flustered in their teenage years. Sans hopes Toriel is right about it being a phase, and that they’ll be back to their confident, flirty self in another year or two. Until then, he’s gonna take advantage of their obvious crush on his brother._

_Papyrus lights up, eye sockets gleaming._

_“FRISK! MY FRIEND!! NEVER FEAR, THE GREAT PAPYRUS WILL SIMPLY ASK YOU!”_

_The tall skeleton takes a knee, swallowing one of Frisk’s hands up in his own. He closes his eye sockets, head turned down and to the side… and then stares them straight on, dazzling, all bright grin and smoldering eye sockets._

_“MAY I HAVE THIS DANCE?”_

_Papyrus has never been one for subtlety. Frisk falls for it anyway, hard._

_Sans watches them go, spinning and dipping and laughing, and thinks that even if it gets reset, seeing this will have been something._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> if this reads weird it's cause i wrote parts of it today and parts of it this time last year, and i don't care enough to make it flow better
> 
>  
> 
> [here's my nasty tumblr if you wanna be gross with me](http://grundlemuncher.tumblr.com)


	5. old jokes, old meals

Smells like fall.

The dying rays of the setting sun have set the forest alight, turning the red, orange and yellow leaves high above nearly neon, so bright that Sans has to squint to continue admiring them. The colors shroud him in warmth, familiar and kind and comforting, and he’s not so dense to not know why. Sans has always liked the color orange. It’s the color of his brother’s soul. 

Brave and strong and solid. The color he’d turn to when he was hurt, when he wanted advice, when he needed Hope - and Papyrus had always given freely, even after Sans’ had ticked down, and down, and down.

Orange is smiles, and bad jokes, and warm meals. It’s high-fives and bone-crushing hugs and-

_Fingers on his pelvis, tracing over his hips, teeth on the back of his neck and quick hard strokes._

“SANS?”

Papyrus is standing next to him at the door to Toriel’s home, a little brownstone nestled up against a forest off of their city’s central park. He’s swaddled in an old burgundy knit sweater, grown loose with age and love, with a plain jacket and straight ironed slacks. He makes Sans feel slovenly by comparison in his beat up jeans and wrinkled shirt, but that’s Sans’ comfortable state.

The tall skeleton blinks down at him, casserole in hand, patiently waiting. Sans blinks up at him, dumbly.

“AREN’T YOU GOING TO KNOCK?”

“oh, right.” Sans grins, reaching around the overlarge wreath. “thanks, bro.”

“DON’T, I REGRET THIS ALREADY.”

_knock knock_

From within the home, a clear voice rings out. “Who is there?”

“orange.” Sans calls, and Papyrus groans.

“Orange who?”

The door swings inward, a wave of warmth and light washing over the skeletons. Sans addresses the shadow in it’s frame.

“orange you glad to see us?”

Toriel laughs, dissolving into snorts when Papyrus grumbles “SHE’S HEARD THAT ONE A HUNDRED TIMES.” She lets them in, still snickering, but the moment Papyrus has put down the casserole and freed his hands, his gray mood vanishes, and he throws himself at her.

The goat monster hums happily as the lanky skeleton wraps his arms about her neck, squeezing her with all his might. He doesn’t bother to lift his face from her soft strong shoulder, shouting, “HI, MOM!”

If Sans notices Toriel’s warm brown eyes grow watery, he doesn’t mention it, letting himself be dragged into their embrace by her free arm. “Hello, Papyrus!” She returns, and the three of them stay there for a long moment, healing some shared, unseen wound.

* * *

“-and then Papyrus BURST into the interrogation room, and I _swear_ , the crook almost pissed his pants!!”

Undyne is cackling, slapping her thigh, nearly spilling the beer in her other hand. Beside her, Papyrus is blushing at the well-deserved praise and smiling at Toriel’s shocked stare.

“Papyrus! You’re a six-foot skeleton,” The goat monster admonishes over her shoulder, pulling two steaming snail pies from the oven. “I’m sure you _rattled his bones_.”

“UGH.” Papyrus groans, burying his face in his own glass. Sans snickers, moving plates from the counter to make room for Toriel’s pies. She absently kisses him on the top of head, moving back to stir at a sauce pan on the stove, and Sans feels warm all the way down to his toes.

“It _worked_ , though!” Undyne continues, throwing an arm around her wife who enters the room with another drink for her. Alphys smiles easy, leaning into her touch with the sort of confidence that only comes with age. “He signed the confession in record time! Papyrus is an amazing bad cop!! All these years, and we never knew!!!”

Papyrus meets his gaze across the kitchen, and for a moment, smiles.

* * *

Sans drops a snail in his lap when it’s halfway to his mouth. It lands on his napkin with a wet slap, still steaming, gray and slippery.

Papyrus is the only one who notices, sitting directly across the table from him, and he laughs.

“What’s so funny?” Undyne asks from beside him, jolted from her conversation with Asgore, looking back and forth between the brothers as Sans snickers.

“NOTHING.” Papyrus replies, coughing into his hand, still grinning like an idiot. Undyne slowly turns back to her right, still looking suspicious, before Sans takes the opportunity to pop the lost snail back into his mouth with his hands. His brother makes a face at him. Sans makes one back.

Right around now Frisk would have clued in to the skeleton’s shenanigans. They might have diffused the situation before it got more out of hand, if they wanted their mother’s dinner party to move on smoothly. More likely they would have egged the two of them on, taking pleasure in their antics, in the real smiles and deft teases and loud, ugly laughs.

Something soft and fragile twists in Sans’ gut that isn’t snails. It feels wrong to smile without them.

Papyrus’ face falls just slightly when Sans ducks back down to his plate, but then Toriel is politely asking Asgore about how MK is doing as the new ambassador, and Papyrus loves that kid (adult, now, and has been for a long time), and he forgets his brother as he hangs on every word.

* * *

After dinner, Alphys finds Sans sunk into Toriel’s huge armchair, half-swallowed by the cushions, firelight glinting off his cheekbones. He scoots to make room for her, and they clink glasses in a quiet toast, listening to the rest of the crew as they boisterously clean up in the other room.

“Papyrus is looking good.”

“yeah,” Sans lets himself smile at her sidewise, a little warm-drunk. “you know him. always bounces back.”

Her words are careful. Alphys is always careful. “How are you?”

Sans shrugs, shoulder bumping hers. Every word he’s ever known just sticks and stagnates in his throat. None of them mean anything.

They watch the fire for a few long minutes, acutely aware of how alive they are.

“It’s good you have each other.”

He thinks of his brother’s hand wrapping around his dick. Holding down his pelvis as he rocks into him from behind. Breath on his neck, panting, encouraging him to a climax he’s not sure he wants to reach.

Sans laughs, and takes a long sip from his drink.

“yeah. i’m lucky to have such a cool guy to take care of me.”

* * *

Highway lights grow, blind, and vanish across the windshield, white and yellow. Sans watches them dazedly, the convertible rumbling comfortably beneath him, his head pleasantly fuzzy. It’s better than getting drunk alone at Grillby’s. He can feel his brother’s solid presence in the driver’s seat, radiating peace.

A thought steals across his blanketed consciousness, and he grimaces.

“bro?”

“YES?” They’re pulling off the highway now, slowing, turning.

“…you haven’t told anyone about what we did together, right?”

He closes his eye sockets, feeling the car rock and sway, not wanting to see his brother freeze, or flinch, or anything. He doesn’t have to wait long. Papyrus’ voice is dangerously low, uncharacteristically flat.

“NO, SANS.”

* * *

They don’t speak to each other when they get home. Papyrus leaves the casserole dish to soak in the sink, and then he vanishes upstairs. Sans sits himself at the kitchen table, pours two glasses of whiskey, and finishes them both.

One for him and one for Frisk, he tells himself. He tells himself a lot of things.

Many dizzy minutes later, Sans wobbles to his feet. He hits every lightswitch as he makes his way upstairs, leaving the house dark and cold behind him. He’s halfway through the door to his own room when he stops, bone-white grip tightening on the doorknob.

Papyrus is in bed, and the sheets are moving. Little noises are falling from his mouth, through his grit teeth, soft and near-sad. An orange glow emanates from beneath the comforter, a tell-tale bulge thrusting into his hands.

He should leave - he might be a brother fucker, but his brother didn’t invite him to _this_ show.

He doesn’t.

Sans watches silently as Papyrus masturbates, eye sockets squeezed tight, looking pained. His thrusts grow faster, rougher, a pace that Sans could never keep up with. He thinks of Papyrus murmuring into his neck, _LAZYBONES_ , before flipping him over and fucking into him like this.

He wonders how full his brother would fill him.

On cue, Papyrus cums. He yelps, gasping, sweat pouring from his skull as he trembles and shudders, chasing his orgasm until it turns bitter-sweet, and then painful. He only goes still once Sans assumes he’s milked himself completely dry, breathing heavy, staring blankly at the ceiling.

Papyrus finds Sans watching when he throws back the covers, tugging his ruined boxers back over his softening cock.

He doesn’t flinch.

Papyrus pushes past him into the hallway with a soft “EXCUSE ME,” making his way to the bathroom. Sans watches after him until the door shuts and the sink begins to run. He sheds his clothes except for his underwear, straining against his thick cock, before crawling into the sheets that reek of sex and his brother and sex with his brother.

Sans curls up facing the wall, fists his own cock around his underwear, and cums in record time.

When Papyrus returns to bed, Sans pretends to be asleep. His brother wraps himself about him, tangling their legs and twisting his long fingers into the gaps between his ribs, tighter and tighter, until together they are a mess of sharp angles and hard bone. Exactly where they ought to be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> unedited, unbeta'd, and unliked! take it anyway!! i'm done with it!


	6. someone like you is really special

The thing about losing someone - and there are many things about losing someone, each more devastating than the last - is that try as you might, you can’t get rid of everything that reminds you of them, or you’d be left with nothing at all.

It’s several weeks since _Frisk_ , since last rites and goodbyes and then a distinctly human thing called a Funeral (because humans don’t dust on their own). Papyrus and Sans come home bone-weary in black suits to a home filled with things they can’t use - step stools scattered across bathrooms and bedrooms, canes that grew legs, from one to four, that would never walk again. Pillows to raise aching limbs filled with old blood, and monitors that beeped throughout the night in a constant lullaby that eased the brother’s fears. 

While Sans dove to the bottom of a bottle and Papyrus crept to stop, Toriel busied herself while she could by removing these reminders of the painful parts of Frisk’s last days. Hospitals and elderly homes found themselves face to face with the Queen of all Monsters, arms full of donations from the late Angel of the Underground.

In this way, so much of Frisk is gone without them ever even noticing.

When the skeleton brothers come back to themselves - dragged out of grief by good friends, distinctly _un_ brotherly love, and determination - they find their home hauntingly empty of the human they called their own.

“doesn’t even smell like em anymore.” sans remarks one day after Toriel’s dinner party. It’s apropos of nothing: they hadn’t been speaking of Frisk, or speaking at all. It had just been another lazy Saturday in their _new_ new happy ending - the post script, the scene after the credits, the unnecessary epilogue. Some days Sans wishes it had all ended at the top of Mt. Ebott, when he’d felt the unparalleled warmth of real sunlight on his bones for the first time ( _we call that the sun, my friend_ \- the words fall from his mouth so easy he’s wracked with nausea, _no_ , deja vu, _you wouldn’t, kid, you didn’t_ \- **R E S E T** ).

Papyrus places a gloved hand over his own.

“DESPITE OUR MUTUAL LACK OF NOSES, I AGREE.”

The faded yellow walls about them seem too bare - broken only occasionally by a photo here, a painting there. To be entirely honest, their home was never full for long. It was hard, near maddening to stick beneath a roof for monsters. The open sky and all it’s many colors called to them, and so their own home upon the surface often went as empty as the Underground. Looking around now, Sans finds that the home he had shared for so many years doesn’t really feel like his own.

“we should put up pictures.” he states, haltingly, privately glad when his brother perks up immediately.

“I WAS HOPING YOU’D WANT TO.”

Over the next week, the skeleton brothers worked to make their home into _Frisk’s_ home. Tackling storage in their old garage brought forth half-filled photo albums, souvenirs from around the globe and near-ancient junk from the Underground that at the time, seemed impossible to part with. Papyrus was especially excited to find their old bone painting, placing it immediately in the keep pile, where Sans mostly lounged and watched his brother work.

Their home was nearly full up on memories by the time Sans found something he wanted to keep. 

“you’ll never believe this.”

Papyrus pauses from straightening a photograph of a much younger Undyne suplexing a fair-faced, brown-haired and _laughing_ Frisk upon one of their living room walls. All four of them are so covered in picture frames now that the yellow that was Frisk’s favorite color is nearly entirely obscured.

“WHAT- OH MY _GOD_.”

Sans’ grin is so huge it hurts as he holds up his catch - having toppled from a pile to land at his feet by a too-curious white dog who had scrambled, yelping from the garage. Papyrus gapes as he takes a closer look, confirming his fears.

“ _the mettaton’s magnificent manifestations deleted episode.”_

_“NO.”_

One of Mettaton’s earliest shows, it had sailed by less on it’s writing and directing and far more on the new appeal of being hosted by a sentient robot recently freed from the Underground. The tape Papyrus was currently gawking at was a particularly flashy episode - so flashy, in fact, it caused widespread seizures and was removed from television and shelves alike. It happened to be a personal favorite of Frisk’s, who watched it so often between their fingers, that their own copy had nearly worn out. Sans was pretty certain he could quote it start to finish.

“WE _HAVE_ TO WATCH IT.”

“i’ll make the popcorn.”

And so Sans finds himself standing at the stove, lazily shuffling a pan of crackling kernels while Papyrus sets up the tv. It’s not hard to admit that his elder brother is the better chef at this point in their lives - Papyrus had taken course upon course of cooking lessons once they reached the surface, determined to set less house fires, and Sans never really bothered to branch out from hotdogs. Still, he can make a competent bowl of popcorn. There’s not much more to do than put the stove on.

“ALL READY FOR YOU, SANS.” Papyrus announces, stepping into the kitchen.

“yessir- oof.” He replies with a mock salute that turns into a wince, his back sore from digging through the garage.

Papyrus steps in close so quickly that Sans doesn’t even have time to react. He freezes as his brother’s bare hands close about his shoulders, thumbs digging in and rolling about his neck. It’s almost certainly just platonic concern, just working the kinks out of his upper vertebrae with a few satisfying cracks, but Sans is suddenly crowded between the hot stove and Papyrus’ lean, tall form. Beneath the deafening pops of their nearly finished snack, Sans loses himself in the intimate motions, unable to help himself from straining his neck a little higher, hoping Papyrus’ hands will stray a little lower, wrap those huge fists around his spine and stroke _down_ -

“COME ON, BROTHER!”

Sans snaps back to himself as Papyrus takes the pan from his hands, tearing off the foil and pouring the popcorn into a bowl in one clean motion. The younger brother flips off the stove and stumbles after him.

The episode is exactly as Sans remembers. A blinding mess of rainbow lights cascade over the brothers as they sit huddled together on the couch, drawn up next to each other by the lifelong indent in the couch they, as a family, had broken into it over the years. The popcorn is devoured long before Sans gets tired of annoying Papyrus by quoting along.

Sans is grateful (for once) for the neon colors that not only have him squinting, but cover up the flush about his neck that’s still stubbornly sticking around. It’s just that Papyrus is _there_ , his long body a warm line pressed up against him. They’re sat together under one big, heavy blanket, the kind you’d use to fool around under without being caught.

It’s all so like it used to be, and yet it’s _not_. There’s no soft, wriggling human between them to tease and kiss, to encourage and admonish bad jokes in equal measure, to make smile with teeth so like their own. It’s just _them,_ two skeletons, brothers who used to be- who did they used to be? Who were they, together, a century ago?

Not this.

Sans’ hand is on Papyrus’ thigh, inching ever farther up and up, long past platonic and well into lewd.

Certainly not this.

Sans clenches his teeth, closing his eye sockets tight as he wills the touch to feel familiar. To feel okay, _normal_ , to settle the rising wave of nausea that fights this too-hot, heavy need.

Papyrus is so engrossed in the show that when Sans applies the lightest of pressure, a testing squeeze, his instinct is to flinch away.

Apologies come bursting, babbling over his teeth. “sorry, sorry- _jesus-_ “

“NO NO, SANS, IT’S-“

Papyrus moves to pull him back, but his own arms stall halfway. Sans sees the pause, however, brief, and chokes on a dark laugh. “stop,” he orders.

Papyrus does.

The two look at each other, lost in this new space, torn between brother and- and- something Sans doesn’t want to identify. He looks away at just the thought, unable to stand being so close to this thing he is so royally fucking up.

It’s just like him.

“…IT REALLY IS OKAY.” Papyrus murmurs, voice low and soothing, just over the noise of the tv. “I WAS JUST SURPRISED.”

“it’s not okay.”

He doesn’t see if Papyrus flinches at the venom in his voice, this bile turned inwards on himself.

“…THEN IT’S… ALRIGHT. ALRIGHT WITH ME.”

Sans turns at his brother’s hesitant voice. Papyrus isn’t quiet, and this is the ever rare exception to the rule. His long face is pulled into a gentle smile, the black in his sockets something solid and reassuring, not empty.

“I’M HERE. I’M ALWAYS GOING TO BE HERE, BROTHER.”

Nothing else happens that night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this was meant to be much longer  
> an update! one day i'll finish this
> 
> come yell at me on grundlemuncher.tumblr.com


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